Every life spread out, mine parallel to yours parallel to everyone else’s.
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Voyeurism is an affair of the mouth.
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You move through the grain of closed eyes, calling through the undergrowth of my body.
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We seem to think that our place on the spectrum between divinity and mayhem comes down to how loved we are.
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One by one, friends gloved their hands and got to work; my ridged, lumpy canvas morphing and shifting, follicles taking on new forms every fortnight.
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people watching. i peer ruthlessly from behind my darkened eyes. observing and absorbing like film.
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Say Goodbye.
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I wonder whether she’s praying, or meditating, and whether she’s prone to impatience, but the 01:01 train arrives before I work it out. It takes four minutes to depart; four minutes to expose the translucent creature perched in her place.
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I am forced to remember it back again. The Sellotape-tear of flesh.
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Coming off antidepressants has been comparable to ‘coming off’ Mum, which I have been doing concurrently.
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I was caught like a fishhook / in the soft dab of my lower lip.
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I am forced to remember it back again. The Sellotape-tear of flesh.
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There’s nothing particularly beautiful about the train station.
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Saunders waded even deeper. This time he floated on his stomach, observing through the transparent pool floor a flock of people who were most likely unaware that he was their omniscient god.
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I love my Digi-cam
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In her novels and private correspondence, the gap was narrowed. What was human became animal and what was animal became human.
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Nothing comes from nothing, And so Prometheus toiled: I must change your life.
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For the first time in years, he decides to stop digging.
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Today Milan Kundera died; and forty years ago, a different student entered his world of middle-aged fever-dreams.
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We are player, viewer, voyeur, flaneur, spectator, and character all at once.
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